


The Deconstruction of Falling Stars

by Bazylia_de_Grean



Category: The Outer Worlds (Video Game)
Genre: (endgame and ending spoilers!), Angst, F/M, friendly trolling, friends with existential crises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:48:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27917008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazylia_de_Grean/pseuds/Bazylia_de_Grean
Summary: To strangers and to her crew she is Alex Hawthorne, always confident, ready to tease, with a convenient argument or lie prepared to roll off her tongue easily should she need it. That’s the only version of her they know, after all.Not Max.
Relationships: The Captain & Maximillian DeSoto, The Captain/Maximillian DeSoto
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos to [aban_ataashi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aban_ataashi) for alpha-reading this <3

Tying damp hair into the usual messy bun, she perches at the edge of her desk and looks outside. One breath, another, and then it’s just her and the stars scattered across the void. For a moment, she lets her thoughts hang there, filled with nothing but the contrast of darkness and light, and then she takes a sip of alcohol and her mind wanders in the direction she knew it would take. That is why she chose whiskey, after all.

No matter what others might think of it, she doesn’t mind that Max lied. She never did, even back down on Monarch; she demanded explanations simply because she was surprised. But how could she hold that against him when she’s been lying to him and everyone else ever since they met? About her name, about her past; about great many things, if so called lies by omission count too.

But her actions do not lie. And neither do Maximillian’s. He’s had her back all the time, despite lying to her. That is what counts. Not what he said and didn’t say, but what he does. And she knows she can trust him.

Because when she told him to stop, to reconsider, he did. She remembers the anger still burning in him, and how he pushed it back because she asked him to, and she knew he would control himself. She could see the anger in his eyes and the effort it took to calm down – and the respect for her in the fact that he did, that he listened to her advice, that he trusted her opinion.

Not that she didn’t understand wanting to punch people sometimes. With anyone else, perhaps she would have let that happen. But with Max, it seemed wrong. Not because he’s a man of the cloth, no. The reason was much more selfish.

There are three soft knocks on her cabin’s open door. “Captain?” The voice is level, quiet. Almost, almost hesitant.

She glances over her shoulder. “Come in, Max,” she invites, nodding at him.

He walks over to her desk, but doesn’t sit next to her. For a moment, he just looks at her silently, and she calmly holds his gaze, waiting.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last. Simple words. Honest words.

“It’s fine.” She pats the desk next to her and offers him the bottle, and he accepts, perching at the edge, though a little further than he usually would.

There’s barely enough space for them to sit like that somewhat comfortably and fit their legs between the metal and the glass. She still remembers vividly how tedious it was to move that blasted piece of furniture further away from the window. But it was worth it – her desk has the best view on the whole ship.

Right now she is watching his hands, visible in the corner of her eye, his fingers tapping against the bottle soundlessly.

She sighs quietly and offers him a brief, tired smile. “Max. It’s fine.” Her expression quickly grows serious. “We all have a past,” she adds, staring ahead.

“I suppose.”Max takes a sip and passes the bottle back to her. “Still, I should have told you the truth, Alex.”

She winces when he says the name that isn’t hers, then turns to him. “Yolanda.”

Max’s eyebrows arch slightly. “Ah.”

“As I said, everyone has a past.”

He watches her closely for a moment, then offers his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Yolanda.”

“Ugh, just call me ‘Captain’. That name’s a mouthful.” She briefly grips his hand, smiling faintly. “Nice to meet you, Maximillian.”

“And mine isn’t?” He’s not smiling, but the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen slightly and the corners of his lips curl up a little.

“At least you can shorten it.”

They sip the whiskey in relatively comfortable silence, passing the bottle back and forth. She could leave it at that, and he’d figure it out – he’s a smart guy – but she decides he’s had enough questions for a while.

“I still trust you, Max. Why the disbelief?” She shrugs. “You gave me advice and followed my orders and never gave me any reason to doubt you. What you say is not everything. I pay just as much attention to what you do.”

“Even so.” He’s no longer beating himself over it, but still realizes his error. That’s enough.

“How did you put it? The only adults on the ship?”

“At least most of the time,” he replies with a small smile.

She chuckles, moving a little closer and she takes the bottle. They sit like that for a while, drinking and stargazing, their arms brushing casually from time to time, the silence between them different than it used to be, but no less comfortable. Maybe even more.

It feels good to be more herself with someone. To wash away the eyeliner and the lipstick and the illusion of the always-confident Captain Hawthorne who can solve all problems and has an answer for everything. To be able to show that she is tired and sometimes lost, and be given advice and understanding in return instead of anxiety and doubts.

She stopped Max back at Fallbrook because he is her voice of reason, always – well, almost, as it turned out – calm and collected, the rock upon which she can crash her own rage until the wave withdraws and all that’s left is just irritation, a bit of foam, something she can manage easily enough. She couldn’t let him turn to anger because she needs him to be that steadying presence at her side. Because he’s far from perfect, but so is she, and because of him she knows she can control it and be someone else, be a better version of herself, stronger, unmoved by the current of events.

Not that she’s going to ever explain that to him. Not that he needs her to.

“You really wanted to throw all your hard work away like that?” she asks at last, looking at him intently, as if his answer could be some kind of a revelation.

Max meets her gaze, his face serious. After a moment of silence, he shrugs. “You know how it is. Sometimes dumb decisions are very satisfying while still in the making.” He turns it all into a joke and she’s grateful for it.

She snorts. “Yeah, I know.” From experience. “Honestly, I wanted to punch him myself.”

“And you’re telling me that _now_?”

She smiles. “Yes, Vicar DeSoto. That’s the whole point.”

“I’m very grateful for your concern about my…”

“About your whatever, yes.” She looks at him, still amused. “I only approve of the best things, so I need you to be the best version of yourself, Vicar.” That’s the only way to ask for something like that. The burden is heavy enough without making it dead serious.

Max lifts an eyebrow. “How fortunate it’s not a tall order at all.”

“What can I say?” She flashes him a smile. “I’m a very kind captain.”

He looks at her and she can see that he knows, knows and guesses enough to understand. Sometimes she needs a sympathetic ear and guidance, too. And as long as they take turns being lost, or fake confidence well enough for the sake of the other, it’s going to be all right.


	2. Chapter 2

“If this hurts him,” she says to the Hermit after Max leaves the house, “I’ll come back and kill you.”

“It will free him,” the Hermit replies calmly.

Maybe she’d be calmer, too, if she could smoke that weird incense all day. But she’s angry. Not furious; it’s a quiet, cold anger, so cold it could burn. She wants Max to find peace. She will make sure he finds his answers in the end. Because he’s her friend. Because she wishes someone would do that for her, too.

“You haven’t been out of this hole and around here a lot, have you?” she hisses through gritted teeth. “In this fucked-up place freedom kills people just as often as the lack of it.”

After they leave Scylla, Max seems completely at peace. She knows that’s total bullshit. No one goes from increasing doubts and then through a sudden crisis of faith to serenity in a matter of minutes. When the roof collapses over someone’s head and they’re left standing in the rubble, no one says how wonderful it is they have a clear view of the sky now. When your whole world crumbles, the first thought probably won’t be how fortunate it is that you can now move in every new direction you can think of.

Max can lie to himself, but he won’t trick her. He was tired of searching and accepted the answer he was given without meticulously analyzing it, how he always did with everything concerning faith. That is what he needs now, so she will let him believe it for a while. And she will be there for him when that certainty fails.

How can there be objective truth about the word when everyone experiences a subjective illusion of it? How could anyone agree on what that would be when even two people can so rarely see the same thing?

Or maybe she’s just jealous. Because she would like to be so calm too. Find her center of gravity and stop orbiting around more and more problems and pains. Except she isn’t sure being calm about them would make them go away.

* * *

Max is calm. The crew is surprised but mostly happy with the change. She can’t shake off the feeling that something is amiss. But it takes her a while to realize what.

That strange experience when she saw Max talking to himself in the vision – she feels like that every time she sees reflection in the glass in her cabin. She knows she’s looking at herself, even though that woman looks like a stranger. But both of them are real. Even if one is invisible most of the time.

For a long time no one – except for Welles, but it doesn’t count because that hadn’t been her decision – knew her real name. Not even Max. But it didn’t matter. Even before he learnt her name, he knew _her_.

To strangers and to her crew she is Alex Hawthorne, always confident, ready to tease, with a convenient argument or lie prepared to roll off her tongue easily should she need it. Good at solving problems, smart enough so that others think she’s useful – and intelligent enough not to let people know how smart she really is.

As soon as she became the captain of the Unreliable, she dyed her hair pale pink – a more Halcyon-appropriate color – and put on some make-up, best she could using a pocket mirror that didn’t show more than one fourth of her face at once. That is part of the lie, too; just enough eyeliner and lipstick to make her face stand out a bit, to highlight her eyes and mouth, but nothing really fashionable, and there’s a bit too much eyeliner and the lipstick doesn’t really go well with her hair. A woman who knows the basics, but maybe isn’t up to date with everything, competent enough but not smart enough to be a threat; someone that could be used or lied to easily enough. She almost dares people to do just that. It’s funny how often they fall for that trick. Sometimes she thinks even her crew buys that. That’s the only version of her they know, after all.

Not Max. At night, when she can’t sleep and goes into the kitchen to get something to drink – sometimes tea or water, usually rum – she often finds him there. At first he seemed surprised, seeing her without make-up, with her hair down and with dark circles under her eyes. He watched her face for a long time, and she let him observe her and make all the mental notes he wanted. And then…

She got so used to their late-night talks the details get a bit blurry when she tries to recall that first evening. Maybe he offered to share some of the whiskey he keeps in his cabin, or maybe one of them asked about something and they started talking.

Or maybe he said she looked like a different person and…

* * *

“You look like a different person, Captain,” he says, watching her over the edge of the cup with the same kind of mild surprise as when she met him at the bathroom door in just an undershirt and trousers. He too looked like a different person without his vestments; she was curious who that could be.

“It’s just the lack of make-up, Vicar,” she replies with a dismissive smile.

His expression shows he doesn’t fall for it. Takes one to recognize one, she muses, briefly wondering what is he hiding. But she’s not going to pry. In time, she will learn that anyway.

“Lack of make-up,” he repeats, eyebrows arching. “Of course.”

“Blast it, preacher, I’m not going to have that conversation while I’m sober.”

“I’d be grateful if you didn’t call me that, Captain.”

That exchange is followed by a brief battle of stares. There is no winner; at some point she just sighs and he shakes his head and the tension eases a little.

“I mean it. We’re not having that talk sober.”

He gets up. “I have Iceberg Whiskey.”

“Correction: we’re not having that talk at all.”

He offers her a polite, conciliatory and only just slightly playful smile. “I’m still willing to share the alcohol.”

She rolls her eyes. “How can I refuse?”

“It’s not that difficult, Captain. First, you need to form words in your mind, then to open your mouth…”

“Correction: you’re not talking until we’re halfway into that bottle, Vicar.”

“My cabin or yours?”

“Hers,” Ellie quips, peeking into the kitchen. “And close the door.”

“It’s not…”

Ellie smirks. “Yeah, yeah, sure, whatever. Close the door. Goodnight.” And with that, she disappears into her cabin.

They both sigh at the same moment, as if on cue. It’s hard not to smile at that. Maximillian nods and goes to get the alcohol, and she returns to her cabin to wait for him. For a moment, having nothing better to do, she turns Ellie’s joke over in her head.

They’re still strangers, but at some point in the future, at least when they’re on a first name basis, she wouldn’t mind. He’s handsome enough, he’s competent, has a pleasant voice, and it seems they do have a similar sense of humor. But that’s something to consider in the future, and maybe – just maybe – right before sleep, so that she wouldn’t remember much in the morning.

There is a soft knock at her door, and the Vicar walks inside, lifting his hand to present a bottle of whiskey. Not her favorite, but she’s not going to complain about free alcohol.

“Please, sit…” She waves her hand, indicating all the sparse furniture in her cabin. “…somewhere.” Then she hops onto the desk and sits on it, cross-legged.

The Vicar perches at the edge of the desk, but doesn’t comment. 

“Sorry,” she sighs. “I need to get Parvati and Felix to move it away from the window sometime.”

“Wise decision.” He nods. “Such a view should not be wasted.”

“Just remember to never mention the word ‘stargazing’ near the kids or we’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I don’t believe Miss Holcomb would tease us.”

“She’d probably keep gushing over it for months.” It’s a bit unfair, she knows, and she’d never say something like that in public. Parvati is a kind and sweet girl, and being mean to her would be like kicking a puppy or a kitten. But sometimes her enthusiasm can be tiring.

Maximillian shudders. “Law forbid…”

“That’s what got you a place here, Vicar.” She grins. “Sense of humor.”

* * *

Maybe they ended up in her room, with her sitting on the top of her desk and Max perched at the edge, staring at the stars outside and sharing a bottle, quiet at first, and then tentatively navigating a conversation that drifted into an unexplored corner of their shared space. And maybe then she showed him a pattern in the stars, and he found another, and that’s how their little game started.

Sometimes, she knocks on the door to his cabin, and he sits at his small desk and she sits on his bed, reading books and drinking. Quite often they meet in the kitchen, sometimes drawn there by the voices of Parvati and Felix chatting about one serial or another, and shoo the kids away to get some sleep, or join Nyoka for a drink and a tale or two. But usually, Max knocks on the open door to her cabin, closes it behind him and they drink and talk, or sometimes just sit together. Ellie teases them about those ‘dates’ for a while, but quickly grows bored when they just ignore her comments.

With Max, she can be tired or pensive, or even wistful, even though – or maybe because – he never asks why. Maybe he knows enough about life to guess. With Max, she can hesitate, doubt, can second-guess her decisions. With Max, she can laugh…

That’s when her train of thoughts comes to a halt and it dawns on her. Ever since Scylla, she hasn’t heard Max joking or teasing, biting back when someone tried to bite him. Ever since Scylla, they haven’t really talked.

* * *

She hesitates before knocking on his door. How is she supposed to say that? Should she really do it? Maybe it’s selfish, wishing for something of the old Max to return? Maybe she should let him be?

“Captain.” Max glances up from his desk with a brief smile.

She doesn’t smile back. “Can we talk, Maximillian?” she asks quietly.

He frowns a little, surprised by this, but makes a welcoming gesture. “Please, come in.”

She does, closing the door behind her, and walks across his cabin slowly. Just a few steps. Light years. She’s either going to do something a real friend should, or something really awful that will haunt her until the end of her life.

“Still reading?” she asks, stopping beside his chair and glancing at the book on his desk.

“My old notes. It’s almost amusing, how foolish and presumptuous I was.” He looks up at her when she doesn’t reply. “Yolanda? Is everything all right?”

“I… don’t know.” She sits on his bed, to be more or less on eye level with him. “It’s just… we haven’t had time to talk in a while.”

“I’m sorry.” Max gives her an apologetic smile. “You’ve been busy, and I need time to think…”

“About what? I thought you found your answer.”

“It’s not so simple,” he replies patiently. “I merely stopped searching and… You know. You were there.” Another brief smile. “You could say I found enlightenment.”

Now or never, she thinks, taking a deep breath. She’s terrified of what she’s about to do. “It doesn’t feel like you found enlightenment, Max. It feels as if you lost a part of yourself.”

He shakes his head. “The part that wasn’t real.”

Her palms are all sweaty, but when she meets his gaze, her expression and voice are calm. “Not real?” she asks quietly. “Like Alex Hawthorne isn’t real? Or maybe I’m not?”

“That’s…” He seems taken aback by her reply. “That’s different.”

“Different how, Max? How is taking on a new face that lets us deal with the circumstances better make it not real? What can we build it on if not on what’s real?”

“No, that’s…”

“Am I not real because I doubt and struggle while Alex Hawthorne doesn’t need to, while she’s always confident and sure and knows everything for certain, and feels at ease everywhere?” She feels a sudden pang of sadness. “Was the Maximillian I knew not real because he had to search and struggle and put effort into being better?” Is he gone, she wonders, is my Maximillian gone? She didn’t even have time to say goodbye. “Was he unreal? Was he a lie?”

Max is staring at her, eyes wide, shaking his head. “No, that’s not… That’s not how it is. That’s not…”

The weight of her words comes down on her, crushing. She has either taken away his newly found peace or lost the closest person to a friend she has here.

“Oh, stars…” She gets up abruptly, lifting a hand to her face and covering her eyes for a moment. “I’m sorry, Max. I shouldn’t have… That was so terribly selfish…” She glances at him, pleading. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but she’s already at the threshold, the door half-opened, and the words hang unspoken between them.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters soundlessly one last time, and hurries back to her cabin. When the door closes behind her, she feels like she’s lost another part of her life that gave it meaning. And it’s her own fault.


	3. Chapter 3

Byzantium makes her skin crawl – the ever-present ads and the people and just about everything. But the buildings and the clothes make her think of old, ancient books she used to read when she was young – books about adventures and exploring new worlds, full of problems and trials that somehow usually led to a happy ending. The yearning is totally unexpected and overwhelms her for a moment, because those childhood dreams couldn’t be more different from reality.

It also reminds her she isn’t and never will be a hero. Perhaps Max was right. Perhaps that part of her that is Alex Hawthorne is just a lie, and has nothing in common with her. Perhaps in reality she’s just a selfish, bitter creature who only knows how to bite and hurt her friends. She glances at Max, who’s talking about something with Nyoka, and quietly walks a few steps away.

She stops near the sculpture in the centre of the main plaza. It’s an orrery depicting the Halcyon system, planets revolving around the sun slowly on golden orbits, and once she starts staring at it, she can’t tear her eyes away. It’s a work of art, the most beautiful thing she’s seen in this city. Its regular movements move something inside her. She promptly tells it to go away. There will be time to get emotional and feel sorry for herself later…

“Captain?”

She turns, startled, to see Max standing right beside her, looking at her intently. But she can’t meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, Maximillian,” she mutters, briefly bowing her head a little, then staring at the orrery again. “I had no right… I shouldn’t have said that.”

“And maybe I shouldn’t have accepted the answer so quickly, after years of inquiry and looking for the truth,” he replies calmly.

“No, forget that.” She shakes her head. “If you found peace, I shouldn’t have…”

“Asked the right questions?” he interrupts calmly.

She glances at him questioningly. “You should be angry with me.”

He shrugs. “And you should have been angry with me when you found out I’d been lying. But you weren’t.” He doesn’t smile, but his expression softens slightly. “It seems we’re both tired by our journeys, Captain, and we’re prone to making hasty decisions, being selfish, and choosing shortcuts when perhaps a longer way would be advisable.”

For a moment, they just stay like that, frozen to the spot, silent, neither looking away. When she moves her hand, her fingers accidentally brush his. Max doesn’t pull away. She lets her hand linger for a while – a tentative point of contact, a connection so fragile even the smallest careless movement could break it.

“Thank you,” she whispers at last.

Max leans in, just enough to be able to speak without being overheard by anyone or anything. “Would you tell me more of Yolanda?” he asks quietly. “I’d like to know her better.”

“Later… Later.” She finally withdraws her hand, pressing it closer to her body. “But yes, I will.”

He nods. “Thank you.” Then, he smiles. “Miss Ramnarim-Wentworth went to find us a place at Billingsly’s.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“You know what to expect of local drinks by now, Captain.” Max chuckles. “I assure you, it won’t be lovely.”

She finally smiles. “You know what they say, Vicar. It’s the company that counts.”

* * *

Her reflection in the glass is looking back at her with an expression asking if these theatrics are really necessary when they could simply just talk. But a part of her feels it’s appropriate to show who she used to be, to show the pieces of Earth she still carries inside her.

The dress is a weird mix of Byzantium fashion and what she could recall about her mother’s wardrobe when she sketched it back in the shop: simple, with long, wide skirt, elbow-length sleeves and a few buttons at the front. When she’s not wearing make-up, the dark fabric makes her look too pale, almost sickly.

It’s silly, says a quiet voice in her mind. She didn’t even really wear dresses all that often. But it’s something so out of place here in Halcyon that it makes her feel more at home just by its very existence.

There are a few soft knocks on the door. “Captain?”

“Come in, Max,” she says, smiling to cover up her anxiety.

He closes the door, turns to her, and his eyes widen in surprise. For a moment, she wonders if the dress isn’t too… immodest. It’s absurd, she knows, but most clothes she’s seen here cover everything up to the neck, and…

“That’s not what I was expecting,” Max comments wryly, looking at her outfit.

“If you laugh at me, I’ll throw you out of the airlock,” she replies sweetly.

“Never, Captain.” He smiles. “I wouldn’t dare.”

“Please, am I supposed to believe that?” She gives him a skeptical look. “Come on, sit.”

Max glances at the opened bottle of whiskey waiting on the desk. “I see you started without me.”

“Yes, I’m a terrible friend, I know…” She sighs, all thoughts of joking gone. “I haven’t exactly been truthful with you.”

His smile disappears, and his eyes focus on her face. “We’ve talked about it more than once, Captain. I don’t mind.”

She looks away, shaking her head. “But I do mind, Maximillian,” she admits quietly.

He walks over to her and perches at the edge of the desk, near, but keeping enough distance to leave her some space. “Tell me,” he says softly. Not pressuring; offering to listen.

“You know I work for Welles, to revive the colonists from Hope.”

Max nods.

“And you probably think I’m weird.”

He shrugs. “There’s plenty of little towns all over this system with all kinds of weird people in them. I know. You found me in one of them.”

Her fingers close around the handfuls of her skirt. “I…” She looks up, into his eyes. “I’m one of the colonists from Hope,” she mutters.

“Ah…” His reaction is more a soft breath of surprise than any semblance of an actual word.

“I was born on Earth. In… another time. All this…” Her hand draws a wide arc in the air, indicating the ship and space and all the planets outside. “It feels like a bad dream. Every day, I catch myself waiting to wake up, _wanting_ to wake up…” She shakes her head again, squeezing the fabric so tightly her knuckles go white.

Max slowly moves his hand and gently covers one of her palms with his. For a moment, he is silent, thoughtful. “Then I will watch over your sleep,” he says quietly at last.

She exhales shakily, and her shoulders slump a little as some of the tension evaporates. “I could never ask that of you.” She gives him a small, brittle smile. “So thank you for offering. For having done that even before you offered.”

Max nods. “Anytime.” He’s not smiling, but his gaze is warm and filled with compassion.

“Can we just start drinking now?” she asks, trying to turn it all into a joke after all.

He sees right through her maneuver, of course. “Or we could talk…?”

“I don’t think that would help.”

“What if you told me about some happy memories?”

She blinks, startled. Max is waiting patiently, watching her. She looks into his eyes, trying to wordlessly convince him memories will only hurt, not help…

His eyes remind her of a garden; green and brown and gold, all mixed into one color that’s hard to describe otherwise than _life_. She remembers: flowers and sunsets and wind in the leaves, warm night air and fireflies. The smell of wood and resin in her father’s workshop. Her mother’s outdated dresses that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else. Old, very old music recordings…

She starts humming the melody almost involuntarily, before she realizes what she’s doing.

“It’s from Earth?” Max asks quietly after a while.

“Yes. Sorry, I got a little carried away…”

He smiles. “I like it. Is that a song?”

“Yeah. I’d sing it but I don’t remember the words because…” She draws in a breath and starts laughing, so hard she almost doubles over. “It’s… it’s in fucking _French_ …”

“Of course…” Max mutters, and then laughs, too.

It’s a low, pleasant sound that unravels something within her. If she could distill that sound and put it onto her pains like a salve, maybe they would heal. But that’s not possible. So instead, she just takes in his face – the curve of his mouth, closed eyelids, slightly deepened wrinkles at the corner of his eyes and lips – and lets go of her skirt, and briefly clasps his hand in hers.

It’s not a romantic touch. She wants to tell him she’s grateful for his friendship, for the understanding he shows her. Thank you for being the only place where I’m not a stranger, Maximillian, she thinks, trying to press those words into his skin. It would take something important out of this confession if she said it aloud.

“Do you dance, here in Halcyon?” she asks instead when they calm down, in a warm voice and with a playful smile.

“If you live in Byzantium, sometimes.” He gives her a wary look. “And no, I don’t dance. For some reason, the OSI doesn’t think it’s a necessary skill for vicars in backwater towns.”

Her smile widens. “That’s perfect, because I’m an awful dancer.” She gets up, pulling at his hand.

Max shakes his head, trying to make a stern face. “Let me be clear about this, Captain.” The effect is somewhat ruined by the way the corners of his lips keep curling upwards. “No fucking way…”

“Oh, come on, Vicar DeSoto. It’s not that hard.”

“You said you can’t dance. And we don’t have music.”

“If you listened to me trying to hum a melody and lived, you’ll be fine with my dancing too.” She grins. “And failing at either really isn’t that difficult.”

He sighs, somewhat theatrically. “My dear Captain, I know ‘no’ is a two-letter word, but I can explain if it’s too difficult for you…”

She could say something funny, and maybe call him Vicar DeSmartass or something like that. Something that would make them laugh. She should do that. But she wants to linger in that fragile space between reality and memories of home a little longer.

“Please, Maximillian,” she murmurs instead, still with a smile, trying to convince him – and herself – that it’s still a joke, to give him a way out. “Just once.”

His expression becomes both more serious and somewhat softer. “If you wish.”

It’s a ridiculous idea. It should feel awkward. It feels natural; she’s still holding his hand, so she just puts his other hand on her waist and hers on his shoulder and starts humming. They barely even move, just slowly turn around, swaying slightly. It’s not even real dancing.

It’s just her and Max and space filled with stars, and she can be herself. Without names and with all her strengths and weaknesses and worries and lost hopes. A short moment when the nightmare becomes a good dream.

She doesn’t think about it consciously, but suddenly time slows, and she thinks this is how she’d like to die: not carefree, but still happy despite that. If she keeps _this_ in mind, she will be able to go on, to find another moment like it.

Finally she stops humming and they come to a halt. She squeezes his hand. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Max smiles. “And you’re right, it wasn’t so hard.”

“Can we move to drinking now?”

He smirks. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Captain, but I’m not the one who insisted on dancing…”

“Smartass.”

“My, my, have I reduced you to invectives?” He reaches for the bottle. “Does it mean I won this round?”

“Shut up, Max.”

“Well, please excuse me while I savor the moment.” He lifts the bottle, as if making a toast.

She grabs it and takes a sip. “Do that, while I savor the whiskey.”

“You don’t even like whiskey that much…”

They laugh and drink and tease each other, and for one evening she feels lighter, so wonderfully detached from all the problems she has to solve, hers and everyone else’s. Somewhere halfway into the bottle, perched at the edge of her desk as usual, arm in arm, they start playing their little stargazing game again.

“Over there.” She traces a curved line across the stars. “The golden spiral.”

“Now, Yolanda.” Max lifts his hand in a very preacher-like manner. “That’s cheating.”

She grins. “You’re just irritated you haven’t thought of cheating like that first.”

“…yes.”

“Do we agree that I won and go back to drinking?”

“My dear Captain, are you asking me to just give up?” Max asks, with a charming smile.

“It sounds so ugly when you put it like that, Vicar.”

“Well, that’s the truth.” He chuckles. “And the answer is: fuck no.”

She nudges his elbow. “Shut up and drink, Max.”

“I can’t shut up. It’s my turn.” He looks across the star field behind the window, searching. “There.” He points, draw a shape in the air. “The OSI symbol.”

“No way…” Her eyes follow the movement of his hand. “Well, fuck me…”

“Not when you’re drunk, Captain,” Max replies without missing a beat.

She looks at his neutral expression and the glimmer of amusement in his eyes, and can’t decide whether to playfully slap him or seriously kiss him, just to see how smug he’d be after that. “I’m not drunk enough for that, my dear Vicar,” she replies with a smile, batting her eyelashes.

Max glances at the almost empty bottle, then back at her. “I’m not sure if we should stop drinking or open another whiskey.”

“Rum. And there’s only one way to find out.”

“We’re going to regret it in the morning, aren’t we…”

“Don’t worry, I still have some of the Caffenoid I bought for Nyoka.”

He smiles. “Is leading people astray a hobby of yours, Captain?”

She grins at him. “Well, sometimes it’s very hard to resist…”

They both burst into quiet laughter, and as they calm down she leans against him lightly. She can see his reflection in the glass smiling at her. It feels good, to joke with him and to laugh and to be silent. To have a space when there’s nothing but stars and a friendly presence at her side and none of her worries, if only for a while.

Sometimes – as rarely as she can – she wonders how it would be if he stayed until morning. It could go well, or it could make things between them awkward, and she’s not willing to risk that, not when she can’t imagine this new life with him no longer being a part of it. Not when he’s the only place she can be herself.


	4. Chapter 4

She wants to rescue Welles just to be sure she’ll be the one to murder him. Logically, she knows it might have been the best choice available. But there’s that voice inside her that’s been screaming louder and louder even since she set foot on Hope again. If it keeps doing that, it’ll drive her mad before they get to Tartarus.

Right after Hope, there was no time, but now the travel is gonna take too long, and she can feel the fresh, vivid memories resurfacing already. She wants to burn Welles’ lab, disintegrate it to the last atom, because that’s the most precious thing in his life. She knows she can’t do that if she wants to save the colonists.

Are the people she knows even still alive? Did they die in Welles’ lab? Did they die… earlier?

There’s a metallic thud and a groan of pain, and only then she realizes her fist has just collided with the wall. It’d stupid, hurting herself like that when she’s gonna need her hands in working condition. But if she doesn’t break something this instant she’s gonna snap. Might as well be her own fingers.

She moves her hand away, her vision blurring, and hits the wall, once, twice, it hurts, third time, hurts but not enough…

“Captain?”

She freezes, not daring to turn. Damn you, Maximillian, she thinks, go away.

“I’d like to be alone,” she manages to say, voice taut with the effort it takes to control it.

“Excuse me, but I think you might be in need of spiritual counsel,” Max replies softly, and something in her breaks.

She looks up at him, notices the quiet concern in his gaze. That voice inside her wails. When she blinks, her eyes sting. “Give me your shoulder, Vicar,” she says quietly. “I think I need to cry.”

Max reaches out, lets her pull him down as she sinks to the floor, kneels beside her as she slumps against the wall in the corner and leans into him, and holds her when she cries, one arm lightly wrapped around her, his hand stroking her hair. He doesn’t offer any inspiring quotes or platitudes or thoughtful advice. He simply is; a steady, supportive presence at her side, and she thinks he might be the best part of this most fucked up part of her life.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says when she grasps his hand so tightly her knuckles go white.

“You’re damn right,” she replies, sniffling. “I wouldn’t let you,” she explains, trying to smile.

She must look awful, with red eyes and runny nose and tears drying on her cheeks. Max smiles back, kind enough to pretend he doesn’t notice. That makes her burst into sobs again. Before today, she never let herself cry ever since she woke up in Halcyon and realized what happened and where she was, and now something so small and silly makes her so emotional.

“I want to crawl into a hole and go back to sleep and for someone to keep crazy scientists from waking me up ever again...”

Max’s eyes widen at her confession. He stares at her, at a loss for words but unable to look away. She wants to ask if he thinks this is the perfection they should be so eager to experience, if this is the way of things they’re supposed to enjoy. Discovering one loss after another, feeling so empty after having supposedly done so much, having to go forward dreading what else might be waiting on the way.

She wants to ask how this suffering is of her own creation, if only to have someone feel as much pain as she for a second. But she has no heart to do that, not when she can see the answer in his eyes. Floating with the current without trying to control reality is all fine until someone you care for hurts. Then you just want to make sense of things. Max wants to help her make sense of things. He just doesn’t know how.

Stars, she wants him to do that, to perform a little miracle and figure it all out. She needs him to do that. If all this – her leaving Earth and ending up here, decades and light years from home, a stranger in a strange world, fixing other people’s problems only to be left with the same heartbreak in the end – if this is all random, what is there to do but…

“Don’t think of it,” Max says quietly, with force, holding her more tightly. “Don’t you ever fucking think of it.” He sounds determined. Calm.

She can see fear in his eyes. She can see that he wants to comfort her, wants to give her answers, but he doesn’t have any. Neither does she; this time, they’re both lost at once. There are no words, only this shared moment of anguish and the stars outside, indifferent and cold…

Her hand curls against his vestment and then she stills, feeling his heartbeat underneath her palm. Regular. Steady. Something to hold onto. She looks deep into his eyes and sees his uncertainty and despair, and still he remains beside her, offering his quiet presence even when he no longer has any hope to share. Oh, Maximillian, she thinks, wrapping her arm around him, pressing her fingers into the hair at the back of his head. He’s been trying so hard. Even when he didn’t really care, or when he failed, he’s always kept trying.

“I won’t,” she mutters, clutching at him. She wants to be telling the truth.

His arms tighten around her. “I’ll make sure of that.”

Perhaps Max is not a man of faith, but of doubt. But maybe that is exactly what she needs: someone who will doubt  _ with  _ her. Only certainty is without doubt – and certainty has proof, and thus is the opposite of faith.

He’s lost and tired, same as she is. That’s why she’s not alone. And neither is he. Maybe that’s their purpose. To hold each other up while they’re adrift. If there is any sense in this, it’s him. For a moment, she stops thinking and just sinks into their embrace, into his warmth, the sound of his breaths, his heart beating so close she can almost feel it in her own ribcage.

Yes, she kept helping her crew and other people, and that’s probably a good thing, but it never worked on those nights when doubts and yearning kept her awake. Memories of helping people in Edgewater or on Monarch never warmed her when she felt lonely. Stargazing and drinking and talking with Max did.

She sighs, hiding her face against his neck. “Promise you’ll stop me if I try to kill Welles.”

“We can do that after he fixes things on Hope,” Max says instead.

She snorts, despite herself. It’s a pitiful sound, wet and teary, but it helps, just a little. Just enough. She tries to smile, pulls away enough so he could see that. “You’re my favorite spiritual counselor in this planetary system.”

“And the only one you know,” Max remarks, trying to make his voice sound casual.

The fabric on his shoulder is a total mess, and she winces. “Sorry…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

She looks at him and laughs, somewhat hysterically. At least that’s the problem that can be easily fixed. No wonder she’d rather worry about that. But he knows, of course.

There’s so much she’d like to tell him, if she only knew how. That his eyes remind her of the trees back on Earth, and right now it’s the only reflection of home available here that doesn’t hurt. That he’s what keeps her sane in this crazy reality. That as long as she has his friendship and support, she’s willing to at least try to somehow deal with everything life throws at her.

She leans in and softly presses her lips to his cheek, lingering there for a moment, in that small space between their jagged edges where nothing else exists but understanding and that most fragile and strongest of connections.

“Thank you, Maximillian,” she murmurs against his skin. Trying to say that she cares and she is grateful he’s here and that he helps more than he thinks he could.

His eyes are still fixed on hers as he slowly nods in reply. “You’re welcome, Yolanda.” His voice is a quiet whisper and she decides that’s what she’s going to carry with her into battle. That confirmation there is someone who knows  _ she _ exists and cares about it.

A few deep breaths, and she’s calmer, calm enough to move away. She doesn’t. Doesn’t want to let him go. She needs to feel he is here.

When she starts getting up, she still holds onto him, and he still tries to help her. After a moment of awkward fumbling, they’re finally standing, leaning onto and into each other.

“Stay?” she asks. Pleads. She doesn’t care how it sounds.

He hesitates, glancing at her narrow bed. “We’re going to regret it in the morning.”

“I know.” She shakes her head. “But I need to know this is real.”

Max looks into her eyes and holds her gaze for a while. And then he nods. “I know,” he admits, his words barely more than a sigh. But the corners of his lips curl up slightly in his trademark non-smile, tired and weary and honest, and the most wonderful thing she has seen in this part of the universe.

They lie down in a tangle of limbs, and it should feel awkward and in the morning it probably will, but right now it doesn’t. Their foreheads are close together and she puts her palm on his chest, and falls asleep holding his heartbeat in her hand.

* * *

She’s not sure what wakes her in the morning; the voices outside, or the fact that her pillow is breathing and shifts when she tries to snuggle into it.

“Sounds like the kids are awake,” Max mutters somewhere over her head.

“Before sunrise they’re your kids…” she replies sleepily. It’s so easy – and strangely comforting – to just slip into their usual teasing routine. And it’s the only way they can get out of this situation without making it awkward.

“We’re in space, Captain. Technically, there are no sunrises.”

“Shut up, Max.”

“Ah.” He sounds amused and vaguely disappointed. “Victory doesn’t taste the same when it’s won without a real fight.”

“Which part of ‘shut up’ don’t you understand…?” Her question ends in a yawn. “You know, whatever. Enjoy your victory. I’m too sleepy for an intellectual duel.”

“I would never agree to one right now, Captain. Not while you’re unarmed.”

She snorts. “Why do I even put up with you?”

“Because I’m a worthy opponent?” he suggests.

“I can hear you smirking, Vicar…”

“I’m sorry, Captain. I’ll try to do it more quietly next time.”

“No, you won’t.” She smiles. “Next time, I’m gonna  _ obliterate _ you.”

Max shifts, and she reluctantly rolls away.

“Oh, Law…” he groans as he slowly sits and starts getting up.

She wants to make fun of him, but then she tries to move and hisses because of the cramps in her leg and the pain in her back. “Stars…” She catches his look. “Shut up, Max. I know, you said we’re gonna regret it.”

He lifts his hands in a defensive gesture. “I haven’t even said anything about it yet…”

“Don’t roll your eyes so loudly next time.” She shakes her head, slowly and carefully. “And to think we didn’t even drink…”

“You know we’ll never hear the end of it if Ellie or Felix catch me sneaking out of your room, right?” he asks, glancing at her over his shoulder.

“Then how about you just go get some breakfast and come back here?”

“Yolanda, haven’t you heard what I’ve…”

“Stars, Max, just be smug about it.”

His eyebrows arch, but then he chuckles and finally smiles. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“I’ll live.” It doesn’t sound as much of a joke as she intended it to. “Thank you.” She finds his hand and squeezes it lightly. “And how are you?”

“Well enough to manage my constant crisis of faith for a while yet,” Max replies with a wry smile. That doesn’t really come out as lighthearted as he meant it to.

But if they play this game for a while, they will eventually feel well enough to keep trying, and she is grateful for his efforts. So she smiles back. “Then go be smug about that breakfast, would you?”

* * *

When everything is done, she doesn’t have enough energy to be glad. Yes, she did all she could even if it wasn’t the best – only time will tell – but it’s not the end, just a point of transition between years of hard work. And all she desperately wants is some rest.

Welles is an idiot if he thinks the colonists from Hope will somehow be better than the inhabitants of Halcyon. Where does he think those people came from anyway? It wasn’t very different on Earth before she left, either. People are the same everywhere. It’s almost funny Welles thinks that the fact that most colonists on Hope are engineers and scientists means they have some kind of a moral high ground. As if being a scientist had stopped Chartrand. Or  _ him _ .

It will be like Edgewater and Monarch all over again. She remembers, all too clearly, how hopeless things looked, even when Captain Hawthorne joked about everything. But it was Yolanda’s quiet, persistent inner voice that kept repeating ‘you’ll work together or I will _ make  _ you’, repeating it over and over until they all started listening. She knows someone will have to do that again and again in the coming years. But not her.

That’s not her problem, not any longer. She’s done. Let someone else save the world next time. And next time. If there’s any order in the universe, it’s only in the endlessly repeating cycle of chaos. Welles will learn that soon enough. But that won’t be her problem, not if she can help it.

She’s too exhausted for sleep; she can’t bear being awake, in the company of all the relentless thoughts in her head. She wants to forget. To let someone else carry all the burdens. To go to sleep and never wake. I’m sorry, Max, she thinks. She can’t go on like this. But she can’t just give up when she can help people from Hope. She can’t, she can’t, she can’t.

She can’t ever cry, too tired for tears even if she had any left. She just sits here at the edge of her desk, slumped like a puppet tangled in its cut strings. Even the stars outside no longer comfort her like they used to.

Before, she harbored a quiet hope of returning to Earth one day, maybe to find memories of something familiar, at least. A tiny flame that warmed her during all those long cold nights in space. Now it’s gone, snuffed out, and she’s cold. She’s never felt so cold in her entire life. In both of them.

There’s nothing to go back to. There’s nothing holding her here except for duty. She’s tired of that. She’s so tired…

“Captain?” Max asks quietly from the doorway.

She just shakes her head. Go away, Maximillian, she wants to say. He should take whatever peace he has left and go before she destroys all the sense that remains in his life.

He doesn’t go. Of course. He just comes over and perches at the edge of the desk next to her, waiting patiently, his arm warm along hers. She’s too tired to move and only that keeps her from leaning into him.

“I want to go home,” she whispers to the void and the stars behind the glass and the man standing at her side, hating how vulnerable that confession makes her. But she has to tell someone; there’s so much bottled up inside her she’s ready to burst.

Max doesn’t reply, just puts his hand on her shoulder. What words of comfort could he offer anyway? He knows as well as she that even if Earth was fine, it’s been seventy years. There’s nothing to go back to.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last.

She shakes her head. “Tell me there’s some sense in all this, preacher.” She must be looking devastated if he doesn’t even berate her for calling him that. “Because if that’s the life I’m supposed to experience with joy, I can’t. I can’t go on like that.” Her hands curl into fists. “I can’t make peace with that…”

“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Max says at last, his voice thoughtful.

That startles her. That’s not what she expected, after last time. “Max…?”

He looks at her, with sympathy and fear and hope that he can find the right answer. “Maybe it’s not the unpredictable we need to make peace with. Maybe it’s the questions. Maybe what really matters is  _ trying _ , despite everything. Failing, stumbling and trying again.” He gives her a lopsided smile. “Believe me, I know a thing or two about failing.”

“That…” She falls silent. Turns that thought over in her mind a few times.

“Maybe the question we should start with is what can we do with  _ our _ lives?” He sounds pensive. “And then how we should do it, and… You know, all that about the consequences of your actions. Everything that makes you doubt. Perhaps doubting is the point? After all, that’s what makes you think.”

She gently nudges his side. “It definitely makes you think. Out loud.”

“It’s the least I can do.” The line of his mouth softens into a barely-there smile. “A good friend helped me deal with a crisis of faith. I’m just returning the favor.”

“Deal with a crisis of faith?” she asks. Last time he looked as if he was still in the middle of it. “So you’re sure you’ve found your answers?” Only the kindness he’s been showing her lately stops her from adding ‘this time’.

“Yes and no. But it’s not faith when you have certainty, is it?”

“That…” She thinks about it for a while. “Makes sense.” She smiles. “Thank you, preacher.”

“Could you please…”

“It’s a term of endearment, Max. I need someone to talk some sense into me from time to time. Everyone does.” Her smile fades into something gentler and more serious. “I’m glad I have you to do that for me.”

“Well, I… You’re welcome.” He chuckles. “And I definitely need someone talking sense into me from time to time, so… thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome, Maximillian.”

“By the way… Why do you call me that? Why not just call me Max, like everyone else?”

“Because everyone else does that.” She smiles at him fondly. “And you’re my friend, not everyone else’s.” She shrugs. “I just thought it deserves some kind of an honorary mention.”

* * *

He stays in her cabin and they drink, staring into space. It seems so insignificant; it grounds her. It’s the most reliable, steadfast part of her life right now. Things change and get messy and turn into fuck-ups, but at the end of the day there’s whiskey and the stars and Max.

She takes a sip from the bottle. “What made you change your mind?” she asks curiously. “What made you take up your search again?”

“Honestly? You, Captain.” He’s not smiling, but there’s warmth in his expression when he looks at her. “You kept going, even when you lost hope.”

“Because you helped me,” she mutters, looking away.

“That was a part of it. I realized…” He gestures with his hand, looking for words. “To abandon the search for meaning is something neither a man of faith nor a man of science should do,” he says thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s the answer. Looking for ways in which we can mean something good for the universe.”

“It’s a good thing that’s not a tall order at all.”

He smiles. “What can I say? I’m a very lenient preacher.”

She laughs, both because it’s kind of absurd and yet totally true. “I can’t complain.”

“What do you think, Captain?”

“What?”

His eyebrows arch. “What do you think about it? Spiritual conversations are usually best when they work both ways.”

“I… don’t know, Max.” She sighs. “Is it wise to ask someone who’s lost for directions?”

“What’s a better moment to start looking for the way than when you’re lost?”

“Damn, you’re good at this…”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean for it to be another of our duels, Yolanda. I’m just interested in what you think about it.”

“I know.” She sighs. “Thing is… I’m not sure anymore.”

Max is quiet, looking at her. Waiting patiently.

“I used to think that maybe we’re both order and chaos.” She drank too much to be having this conversation. Or maybe didn’t drink enough. “That maybe we’re both architects trying to build something and crumbs of eternity trying to understand ourselves through each other. But now...” She shrugs, then leans against him slightly. “I liked your version, you know. About doing things with  _ our _ own lives first. I’m tired of everyone else’s.” She pauses, considering. “Is that selfish, Max? Am I selfish?”

“You’re tired.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “You need rest.”

“That’s not the answer.”

“What if it is?” He gently rubs her shoulder with his thumb. “And I think you don’t have to worry as long as you feel the need to ask. Trust me. I was there.”

Maybe that’s not the answer. But maybe Max is right and asking the right questions is enough. Maybe she’ll think of it once she’s had a few nights of undisturbed sleep.

They’re all shine and polish and reliability on the outside. But when you scratch the paint and look underneath, there’s rust and old, creaking metal, bending under the pressure but stubbornly refusing to break. Two starships that have seen better days and can tell each other’s story from the creaks and dents in the hull – testimony to what taught them how to navigate among the stars.

She’s grateful for the remaining bits of polish and all the layers of rust. She never wanted anything else. She never wanted anything  _ more _ . Just as little as understanding. Just as much as understanding. 

She reaches out, somewhat tentatively, and Max mirrors her gesture, and slowly their hands meet. Not holding, just touching, her fingertips barely brushing the inside of his palm.

They don’t speak because there’s nothing to say. There are no declarations she has to offer, and he probably doesn’t have any either. No sudden realizations on the way, just gradually growing closer, slowly fitting themselves together, and now they simply  _ are _ . This place is not her home, and never will be. But with him, she feels like she belongs somewhere again.

There can be no wrong answers when for once there’s no need to ask questions.


	5. Chapter 5

They leave Ellie, Felix and Parvati on the Groundbreaker, and then travel to Monarch. She’s not very keen on visiting any of the settlements, and neither is Max, so they just land the ship in a relatively safe place in the wilderness, and spend a few days there, camping and drinking and trading stories with Nyoka.

“The ship’s gonna be like an empty nest now, isn’t it?” Nyoka asks, stretching her legs out towards the fire. “Too quiet.”

She looks at Max, and he looks at her, and together they look back at Nyoka. “Law, no,” they say in unison. She never wanted to have kids for a reason; she’s glad she won’t have to be mothering them any longer. And Max has never been that close to any of the younger crewmembers, so she guesses he’s glad that the ship became less crowded.

“There’s no such thing as too quiet,” she explains to Nyoka, smiling. “Not after you spent a few months on the same ship with Felix and Ellie.”

“Well…” Nyoka shrugs. “If it gets too quiet, you can always find me here.”

“Thank you for the invitation, Miss Ramnarim-Wentworth.”

Nyoka groans. “Are you ever going to call me by my first name, Max?”

“Not if I can help it,” he replies with a totally serious expression, and a moment later they all burst into laughter.

It’s nice, laughing with friends. But as she looks at Nyoka and Max, letting her eyes linger on him for a moment, she thinks right now she’d prefer silence. The kind of silence that falls when people can talk without words.

“Hey, Vicar?” Nyoka says, glancing at her briefly before looking sternly at Max.

“Yes?”

“Not that she needs it, but take care of her, will you?”

“Of course,” Max replies calmly.

She needs it, and he knows it. Having someone who helps her be strong is one thing. But there’s something uniquely liberating in having someone with whom she can also be  _ weak _ .

* * *

The next few days are a blur: they sleep, read, listen to silly aetherwave dramas (mostly she) and tossball matches (mostly Max), drink and stargaze, and sleep some more. She wears her dress most of the time, lets her hair loose when she can’t be bothered to do anything with it, and doesn’t put on make-up.

There are a few unread messages waiting on her computer, but she can’t be bothered. In a few days or weeks, maybe. But not right now. There are other things she needs to solve before dealing with any more of other people’s problems.

For the first time since taking on Alex Hawthorne’s name, she feels like she’s herself. Except she’s no longer really certain who that is and what that means. But she can take as much time as she needs figuring it out. Max is there to talk to her and share drinks and silence with her no matter who she is.

“I think you’re just… you,” he says with a brief smile, when at last she asks him about it. “Captain.”

“I…” She shakes her head, then chuckles. “Thank you, Vicar.” She sighs. “I guess months of being too busy to figure out my own life are catching up with me.”

His smile fades, but the corners of his lips are still curled up slightly. “I’ll be there if you ever need spiritual counsel.”

“I know.” She offers him a smile, tired and grateful. “I meant it. Thank you, Maximillian.”

“Meanwhile… how about listening to a tossball game?”

“Max,  _ no _ …”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. Let’s read something?”

“I’m not really in the mood for philosophy.”

“Strange, but I happen to have a few poems in my collection of non-heretical texts…”

“Poems?” She narrows her eyes, looking at him closely. “Wait a moment, are they yours…?”

“Well, wiring poetry is a good exercise for the mind. Rhythm, regularity…” He frowns. “What’s so funny?

“The fact that it actually makes sense, with the OSI’s fondness for symmetry and stuff.” She smiles. “I guess poetry would be the equivalent of mathematics in literature?”

“Well said, Captain, thank you. Now, shall we?”

“Is that a date, Vicar?” she teases.

“Well, of course today’s a date, same as any other day…”

She watches him watch her as she laughs, with a fond expression on his face, and thinks that maybe this particular fragment of her life isn’t looking so bad.

* * *

Turns out the poems aren’t so bad either. They’re not very good, certainly – or rather, she supposes they’re very correct according to the laws of literature, but they’re nothing extraordinary. But to their defense, they’re not worse than the poem Junlei sent Parvati.

They’re mostly descriptions of nature, planets and stars and plants and the ocean, more like the work of a scientist or a naturalist than art. The work of a restless mind, trying to find something to do. Honestly, though, she doesn’t care, as long as Max reads them. She could probably listen to him reading even all those annoying ads.

There’s something very  _ Max _ in trying to fit the universe into lines and verses and a given number of syllables, looking for symmetry in words to put it into rhymes. She kind of likes it. There’s something soothing in symmetry, in repeating patterns. In trying to find a bit of structure in randomness.

She glances at Max sitting at his desk and leaning over his notebook, then closes her eyes. His pillow smells of soap, and it’s not such a bad thing on a spaceship. It’s downright hilarious that now, when she’s lying in his bed, she stops thinking how it would be if they took this further. Because it’s perfect just as it is.

* * *

After a while, she switches back to some of the new habits, like trying her hair a high, messy bun, or putting on make-up whenever they land somewhere to get supplies. But other than that, she’s still relieved that no one wants anything from her. She reads and learns all she can about this foreign world, and listens to the carefully chosen news Max relays to her.

He is the first to start growing restless. She notices he spends more and more time buried in his books and notes, scribbling, or stays off the ship for longer whenever they land near a town, looking for people who might need his help. He still gladly keeps her company, but it seems he simply isn’t made for resting.

She tries not to think of it. He is going to leave at some point, that seems inevitable, but she’s not ready to consider it. And she’s not ready to go out there, to feel out of place again. To see how different everything is from Earth and to battle with another wave of longing. She’s not ready to go out there and solve other people’s problems when she barely holds her own life together. She knows she can’t keep hiding from the world forever, but she’s not ready to face it. Not when thinking of it makes her wonder whether she should just return to Hope and force Welles to freeze her again.

Maybe one day, when she figures out how to take enough so that giving wouldn’t drain her, when she learns how to care less. But not today, not tomorrow, not it a week or a month. For now, she can stay here and pretend nothing else exists. So she just tries to spend as much time with Max as she can instead, asking about his books and writing, asking about Halcyon, just using every excuse to keep him occupied, because every moment he has something to do means he will stay longer.

But despite all her efforts, the only time of day she doesn’t hear the clock ticking is between supper and sleep, when they sit in her cabin and look at the stars. It’s the only place where time doesn’t exist, where nothing else exists but the two of them and space and the glittering patterns across the void.

She watches Max tracing another shape and tries to learn the sight by heart: his eyes, narrowed slightly in focus, the way the corner of his lips is curled up. He notices her staring and looks at her, and before he can form a question she smiles dismissively, as if all she wanted to do was to smile at her friend.

“Is something wrong with my face?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Sorry, I was just lost in thoughts…” She grins. “Your face is fine.”

“Why, thank you…” For a moment he seems taken aback by her remark, but then he apparently decides to follow her cue that it’s just a joke and smiles. “Yours is very fine as well.”

She laughs. “You’re lucky I’m not wearing make-up right now so it really counts as my face.”

“I feel very fortunate indeed.”

His gaze follows her features, sliding over the plains and angles of her face, and then up onto her hair. His eyes narrow a little as he takes a closer look. “That’s your natural hair color?”

“Yeah. Brown. Could be graying now, I suppose. Not sure.” Her mirror isn’t big enough to show her entire face, so she usually just watches one eye at a time, or her mouth. She’s just seen enough to know she should dye her hair again, but she can’t be bothered.

Max brushes his fingers through a strand of her hair. “I think I can see some silver.”

She chuckles. “That’s a very kind way of saying I’m getting old.”

“Please. You must be younger than me.”

“Not that much. And technically, I’m much older…”

Max shrugs. “Well, then you don’t look your age.”

She snorts. “You know how to compliment a woman…”

“What can I say. It’s a natural talent.” He smiles. “And months of research.”

She smiles. “That’s a very inventive way of saying we’re friends.”

“I’m trying.” Max offers one of his not-quite-smiles in return; the line of his lips softens and the corners of his mouth curl up just a fraction and his eyes narrow a little. Somehow, this expression is warmer than any of his smiles.

She takes in his face, looks into his eyes, and suddenly she knows. It’s as if the deck slipped from under her feet and she was left floating in zero gravity with nothing to find purchase on. She was afraid this day might eventually come. She only hoped it wouldn’t be so soon. “You want to leave.” It sounds hollow.

“No.” Max slowly shakes his head. “ I mean yes, but…” He looks into her eyes. “I want you to leave with me.”

The stars and planets outside stop in motion and the whole universe holds its breath when she does, she is sure of it. And starts turning again when she exhales; a barely-there sigh, heavy with resigned certainty. “Leave, Maximillian?” she asks quietly. Please don’t, she thinks; please, don’t leave, please, don’t ask that of me. She will not bear any more losses. “This is the only semblance of home I have left.”

“That’s not what I meant.” His hand twitches when he starts reaching out but instantly stops the motion. “Leave with me. On this ship.” He gives her a look that is both determined and vulnerable, and while his voice is calm, there is anxiety in his eyes. Anxiety and a promise of peace. “You wanted to hide, to rest... I’m sure there are some quiet places where people need spiritual counsel around here.”

She never really believed in the Grand Plan, not in the way OSI explained it. But back on Earth old books mentioned something called Providence. Maybe sometimes, only sometimes, when you give enough, the universe provides. She’s still not sure about that, but she’s really willing to believe it right now.

It just happens. She lifts her hand, running her fingertips along his jaw and cheek, and maybe she tilts her head a little first, or maybe he starts leaning in the same moment she does, and next thing she knows is that they’re kissing, her other hand moving up his arm and his hands settling on her waist.

It just happens naturally, as if they were patterns of molecules set on this path long ago, and now simply sliding onto their tracks flawlessly. He tastes of tea and whiskey and all the right questions and of the calm she so often thought she found in him, and that’s both surprising and the most obvious thing in the universe.

Time slows, and for a moment she holds onto that frozen instant, committing all details to memory: his hair between her fingers and his warm palms on her waist, the stars framing his head like a shattered halo when she opens her eyes for a heartbeat that last for minutes, the silly thought that he is skilled with his mouth and not just with words.

It takes a while before they pull away, just a little – and still both too much and not enough.

“I’ll take it as a ‘yes’.”

“Max…”

“Mhm?”

Her smile widens. “Bed.”

“I don’t know…” He has the audacity to actually smirk. “Your desk looks pretty good. More spacious.”

“You know what’s even more spacious? The floor in the cargo bay.” She starts unbuttoning her dress. “Doesn’t mean I’m going there. If it doesn’t have a mattress or pillows, I’m not interested.” She watches Max watch her as the dress slips to the floor, and thinks it was worth every bit.

“That,” he says, letting her pull him towards the bed, “is a very compelling argument.”

* * *

“Maximillian?” she breathes against hair when he presses another kiss against her neck. She wants to tell him how much he means to her, but when he lifts his head and looks at her, all coherent thoughts are gone, and all she can think of is a silly: “Love me…”

Something changes in his eyes, in the way his fingertips touch her face. “I do.”

Suddenly she’s thrown into the void again, with breathtaking force, falling, falling... Upwards. She’s floating.

She finds purchase on his shoulders. “I…”

“I know,” he murmurs, softly, and leans in, and she kisses that lovely not-quite-a-smile off his lips.

It feels good, to leave everything behind for a moment, stop being even herself and become stardust.

* * *

They find a quiet spot on Terra 2, near the ocean, close enough and far enough from the nearest town – close enough for Max to visit regularly, far enough for her to feel they’re alone. Sometimes, she dreams of a real house, no matter how small, but that’s not really possible, so they make do with living on the ship.

In the evenings, they sit on a pile of mattresses and blankets taken from the crew’s cabins, listen to the hum of the waves and look at the stars. She breathes in the salty breeze and thinks that maybe life isn’t so terrible after all. She can just lie here, watching the stars move over her head, and no one wants her to solve any problems. Funny how only after she practically disappeared she feels like she found herself again.

“I brought our drinks,” Max says, leaving the ship with a bottle in his hand and an extra blanket thrown over his shoulder.

“Rum?” She lifts her eyebrows. “You don’t like it.”

“It’ll do.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m not going back there. ADA is having one of her talks with SAM.”

She groans. “Stars… Thanks for reminding me that’s a thing, now I need to take a shower.”

Max smiles. “I can help.”

She grins. “Dream on.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks, glancing at her and at the small beach nearby.

She snorts. “Sand in places it’s not supposed to be, a cold, and my back killing me for the next day or two?” It’s not the first silly and seemingly romantic idea they’ve had, and they always come to the same conclusion: comfort definitely becomes more important with age. “No, thanks.”

Max chuckles. “Yeah, that.”

He puts the bottles on the ground and puts the blanket over her legs, and only then he lies down beside her. She shifts, moving a bit closer, and finds his hand. For a moment they lie in silence, watching the stars. For a moment, she wants nothing, feels like everything is fine, feels that maybe some pieces are missing from the picture but all those that remain are in the places they’re supposed to be.

Turning her head, she glances at Max. He’s watching her with that barely-there smile on his lips.

“Has anyone ever told you that your eyes are like stars?” he whispers.

“It’s too dark to see that,” she replies matter-of-factly. “And yes, Maximillian,  _ someone _ has,” she murmurs, leaning in to kiss him.

The way he sometimes kisses still surprises her: patiently and softly and openly, letting her decide on the direction before he progresses. There’s more than one reason he calls her his Captain.

“You know,” he says thoughtfully when they pull away and lie back again. “I’ve been wondering if this solves anything…”

“And?” She curls up, resting her head on his shoulder. “Any conclusions?”

“Maybe it doesn’t need to?” he suggests.

Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe there’s no need for explanations or answers as long as for a while there are no questions and just warmth and breaths and existence in its purest form: still separate but connected. Maybe it’s enough to dissolve instead, forget where you end and someone else begins, merge the borders until all that’s left is something new and more than a sum of its parts; her and him and  _ they _ and a moment of peace floating in the ocean of stars.


End file.
